Return to Sender
by whitefang3927
Summary: "When Sherlock comes back, everything becomes all right again." ...yeah. If only. / Reunion!fic with misunderstandings, post-Reichenbach.


**Title**: Return to Sender  
**Disclaimer**: Just having some fun before everyone gets Jossed. No suing, okay?  
**Spoiler**s: Seasons 1 and 2  
**Pairings**: Not really.  
**Rating**: T  
**Warnings**: Allusion to drug use. Bit of violence, swearing.  
**Wordcount**: ~3500  
**Summary**: When Sherlock comes back, everything becomes all right again. / ...yeah. If only.

* * *

When Sherlock comes back to London after his long exile, the first thing he does is drop by an unassuming office building to turn over a memory stick to an equally unassuming man. By the end of the night it will end up in the hands of not-Anthea, and when she drops it on Mycroft Holmes's desk, he will sigh and the tension will ease away from his shoulder, quite briefly, before returning with a snap as he turns to the next item on his schedule; because Mycroft is a busy man, and no matter what, his duties come first.

They won't meet face-to-face for another week, when Mycroft sends him a gleaming black car, and Sherlock will evade them all for half an hour before he lets himself be taken away.

—

He picks the lock of DI Lestrade's flat some time after, so that when Greg comes in nearly dead on his feet, Sherlock is sitting cross-legged on the sofa with Greg's laptop in his hands.

"Bloody hell," says Greg, and reaches for a chair before his legs collapse from under him.

"Eloquent," Sherlock sniffs, then proceeds to insult the entirety of the Met for general incompetence before solving two cases based only on Greg's emails.

"Give me that," he snaps and snatches his laptop away. He doesn't know whether he should laugh or cry. "Seriously, Sherlock, what the fuck?"

"Is that even a question?"

"I left you fucking flowers on your fucking headstone!" Greg snarls. "A surprising number of people chipped in, despite you being a _complete fucking prick_."

"Yes, well," Sherlock shrugs his bony shoulders, and there's the faintest tinge of pink creeping across his absurd cheekbones, "I've never understood what good flowers were for the dead."

"Jesus fucking Christ," Greg runs a hand through his hair, trying to resist the urge to punch the man.

"Would it make you feel better?" Sherlock inquires.

"What?"

"You're contemplating something violent. Your frustration is possibly compounded by the fact that you haven't had sex since your wife left—"

He catches Sherlock on the chin with a right hook. Sherlock curls his fingers around the edge of the coffee table to stop himself from falling, and gives Greg an impressed look whilst rubbing his jaw. "What would you say was the motivating factor behind that?" he asks, as if he's cataloguing some sort of experiment. "Anger at the comment about your wife? Shock at seeing me here? Pent-up vexation over your work?"

"You _unbelievable wanker_," Greg pronounces, then stalks into the kitchen to pour himself a drink. "You threw yourself off a fucking four-storey building!"

"Always stating the obvious," Sherlock says, following right behind. "Do you have any cigarettes?"

"No," Greg bites out, fingers gripping his glass tightly. "And even if I did I wouldn't give you any."

"Right," Sherlock says, and his voice is so mournful that Greg wavers for a moment before reaching into his pocket.

"Here," he says, tossing a couple of nicotine patches at him. "Knock yourself out."

Sherlock snags the packets out of the air and stares at them in distaste before unbuttoning his left cuff (and god, even when his shirt is _filthy_ and frayed he manages to carry it off like a fashion statement, the posh git), and then he's slapping on both patches at once.

"Oi," Greg protests despite himself. "what are you doing?"

Sherlock just looks at Greg as if he's being an idiot. "Two isn't nearly enough, but I suppose this'll have to do," he says, grimacing.

The burn of alcohol is warm in Greg's stomach, and it's a bit easier to accept that a dead man is sitting in his kitchen now – or maybe he just cares a bit less. "Why aren't you dead?" he says, not quite looking at the man.

Sherlock stills. Greg glances up and notices the rapid flutter of pulse in the line of his throat.  
"I couldn't," he says, very quietly. "There were...people in danger."

Greg's known Sherlock long enough to realise that "people", as Sherlock uses the term, is specific, not general. "You haven't talked to John yet, have you?"

A shake of his head. "I went to Baker Street," Sherlock admits, "but Mrs Hudson—" He stops and swallows. He looks almost confused at finding himself without words.

"It was complications from pneumonia," Greg offers quietly. "I'm—"

"Yes, _thank you_, Lestrade," Sherlock snaps. "I talked to the neighbours. Unlike _some people_ I am quite capable of drawing inferences from second-hand sources."

Greg takes a breath, rubbing the bridge of his nose and noting somewhere in the back of his mind that Sherlock deals with grief – emotions, really – by being an even bigger tosser than usual. "Would you like John's address?" he asks after a while.

"That," Sherlock begins, and then pauses to clear his throat, "would be appreciated."

Greg is impressed at how untouched his bedroom looks, especially as he harbours no delusions about its having been searched by the prat lying about right outside. He briefly considers what might be deduced from the state of his sheets, then decides he doesn't give a toss.

It takes him ages to dig up his address book (possibly why Sherlock couldn't find it, either), and then he throws a hesitant glance into his closet before picking up a shirt. It's one of his nicer ones (he'd worn it on his very first date with Anne, he remembers with a pang), and though it's certainly not going to live up to Sherlock's Savile Row tastes, it's at least cleaner than that ratty thing Sherlock's got on.

John's living somewhere in Camden now. Greg emerges from his room with the address scribbled on a piece of scrap paper and offers Sherlock the shirt.

"Oh," Sherlock says, looking somewhat surprised. "Thank...you." The words sound foreign coming out of his mouth; Greg tries to remember if he's ever heard Sherlock say them without the bite of sarcasm. (_Just once_ is the answer, murmured sleepily as he surfaced from a cocaine overdose.)

Unselfconsciously, Sherlock reaches for the buttons on his own shirt (the ones that haven't been torn off, at any rate), undoing them with deft fingers and shrugging the grimy fabric off his shoulders. Underneath, Sherlock's torso is pale and marked with faint scars all over, courtesy of various criminal elements he's dealt with over the years. Greg realises that he can make out the faint shadowed hollows between his ribs.

"Christ," he mutters, "you really ought to eat more."

Sherlock only shoots him a contemptuous look, slipping into the cottony blue shirt that is Greg's. It doesn't sit well on the man, as Greg's broader about the shoulders and Sherlock has limbs that stretch on for ages, so that his painfully thin wrists protrude far beyond the cuffs. Greg hides a smile. Sherlock's frown says he knows exactly what Greg is thinking.

"I'm off, then," Sherlock announces, getting to his feet.

"Now?" Greg raises an eyebrow. "It's the middle of the bloody night."

Sherlock's only response is an impatient glare.

"You need sleep." As Sherlock continues to look unconvinced, Greg adds, "And so does John."

Sherlock gives in quite suddenly, like metal that's reached its stress limit. "Fine," he says, collapsing back onto the sofa. "If you insist."

Greg fetches a blanket from the closet and throws it in Sherlock's general direction; it ends up landing in a crumpled heap on Sherlock's face. Ignoring the muffled protest that comes from underneath, Greg flicks off the light and heads for his bedroom.

In the morning when Greg wakes up, the sofa is already cold, as he'd expected, though the blanket folded neatly on the coffee table is a bit of surprise. Greg wonders idly what to do about the remnants of Sherlock's shirt and eventually bins the whole thing.

—

Sherlock spends the day at the Royal Veterinary College and emerges from the labs as the air grows cool; John's come home some time in between, Sherlock can see his silhouette is outlined against the too-thin drapes. It still takes him an inordinate amount of time to climb up to the second floor and knock.

"Yes, I'm coming," a worn voice filters through the door, and even though Sherlock's never heard John sound so tired it's still achingly familiar. There's a shuffle of feet from the other side, and then the door opens. "Yes, hello—"

John's breath catches. He stares at Sherlock, his mouth open but wordless; he's thrown his right hand to the door-frame to support himself.

"Hello, John," Sherlock says. And he can read John's life in the lines of his shirt (_stethoscope's left creases down his front and round the neck; bit of leftover gauze in his front pocket_) and how John's day has gone in the frown still etched around his eyes, but he cannot read the thoughts running through John's head _right now_, and somehow that's more terrifying than stepping off the roof of a hospital building.

He had a plan, then; he doesn't know what's going to happen, here.

John clears his throat. His jaw is clenched; the fingers of his left hand are curling and uncurling slowly (and all of a sudden Sherlock is reminded of _Drosera capensis_, the cape sundew, a carnivore despite its name).

He shakes his head and pushes the door closed – almost noiselessly, unhurriedly, but nevertheless quite firmly.

Sherlock goes.

—

Sherlock is in a part of town he's mostly avoided since he got clean. He has money and at the moment, he doesn't quite care about anything else.

"You Sherlock 'olmes?" A voice comes from behind his elbow. Sherlock looks down to see a short, scruffy kid with a sharp gaze. He can't be more than eight or nine.

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "Give it to me," he says, holding out a hand.

The boy fumbles under layers of tattered clothing to fish out a folded white note. Dropping it into Sherlock's palm, he looks up expectantly.

"Whoever gave this to you already paid you," Sherlock says, beginning to walk away.

"Yeah," the boy admits without a trace of embarrassment, hurrying to keep up with Sherlock's long strides. "But in case you're feeling gen'rous..." He sticks out his lower lip in what is certainly a very well-practised pout.

The only thing Sherlock has is the fifty-pound note. He hesitates, looking upward, then looks back at the boy. Even underneath all the layers it's quite evident that he's entirely too skinny. Sherlock sighs and digs into his pocket. "Here," he says shortly, before taking off in the other direction. The boy goggles at the bill and doesn't follow.

He comes to a stop under a street-lamp and unfolds the note. "60 Warwick Way, Flat 2", it says. The paper's expensive and there's a trace of perfume – a scent that Mycroft's assistant, whatever she's calling herself nowadays, has always favoured. Sherlock's mildly impressed that he deserves that much attention.

—

The flat is a small affair and furnished with many of his old belongings. It has one bedroom.

Apparently even Mycroft could have predicted what would happen. Sherlock gives in to the urge to break something and savagely throws his keys at the wall.

—

Sherlock returns. It's in all the papers; words like "innocent" and "hero" fly about, and the blame's been shifted back to Moriarty instead. (And it _is_ Moriarty this time, not "Richard Brook".)

The Met's made "consulting detective" an official position. There are pictures with the headlines, Greg with his arm around Sherlock's shoulder and Sherlock with an uncomfortable frown.

John takes one glance at the front page before binning it.

—

Sometimes John thinks that Sherlock keeps making his way into the papers just to spite him.

But that's absurd.

—

"_Do you know what it's like to see your best friend die right in front of your eyes?_" John demands one night into his mobile, when he's utterly, completely pissed. He is yelling at a voicemail service, but it's still better than yelling at nothing. "_Do you know how much it fucking hurt?_"

The next morning he'll wake up with a wicked hangover and lets loose a string of swear words, before he remembers that he doesn't have Sherlock's new number anyway.

—

Sherlock gets stabbed near Paddington station. He drags himself across Edgware Road so the ambulance will take him to Western Eye instead of Saint Mary's.

Greg calls him an idiot. Sherlock doesn't deny it.

—

"I'm not going to apologise," Sherlock says bitterly to the skull as he paces. "It was necessary."

The skull only stares back. It doesn't offer judgment, but it doesn't offer acceptance, either.

—

John goes on dates some nights, and it never stops feeling _wrong_, not being interrupted in the middle by a madman with a gleaming grin.

There are kisses good-night, but he never promises to call afterwards.

—

When John visits Mike at Barts and runs into Molly for the first time in ages, she gives a guilty start. "Listen, John," she says, biting her lip and looking downward, "I'm really, really sorry."

"Sorry?"

"For not letting you know Sherlock was alive." Her words tumble out in a hurried tangle. "He said it would be dangerous. For you, I mean. If you knew."

"Did he," John says tightly.

"He was sad, you know. That he had to leave. And he's come back now and everything's supposed to be all right, but he's still...sad."

"Right."

"It wasn't his fault. You shouldn't blame him."

"Why are you telling me this?" John asks.

She flushes. "He keeps talking to himself. In the mortuary. I don't think he remembers I'm there. Or maybe it doesn't matter."

John clenches his teeth. "Thanks, Molly," he says, and starts to walk away. Behind him Molly is muttering more apologies, and he knows he's hurt her. It's very hard to care.

John understands, on an intellectual level, what Sherlock did was important. It still hurts.

—

Sherlock is practically jumping out of his skin as he examines the murder victim. After he spits out everything he's noticed (the man's husband, and something about cologne), Greg stops him before he can flee. "Are you on something?" he asks. "Let me see your pupils."

He shoots Greg a disbelieving look. "Lestrade, it's certainly true that I can out-perform your team while – what's the phrase? – 'high as a kite', but rest assured I've been clean since—"

He doesn't have to finish the sentence. Both of them know exactly when.

"Shut up," Greg says, reaching up to tug at the man's shoulder. "Eyes."

Sherlock huffs impatiently but bends his tall frame a fraction, so Greg can peer at blue-grey ringing black. They're slightly dilated, but the lighting in the room isn't the best, so Greg lets it go. "What's got you so wound up, then?" he asks, letting go of Sherlock and leaning back.

Sherlock is silent, his expression defiant. _Deduce me, Detective Inspector_, he might as well be saying.

After all these years of working with the prat, though, Greg does have _some_ idea of what makes the man tick. "John," he ventures. "Have you seen him again?"

"I find it offensive that every problem I have must be related to either drugs or John," he mutters, but that's not a 'no' and Greg knows that's the closest Sherlock's ever going to get to confirmation.

"Sherlock—"

He turns and swans off with an over-dramatic swoop of his coat. Greg feels a headache coming on, and he's not really the praying kind, but god, he wants John Watson back.

And for Sherlock's sake, it'd better happen soon.

—

Sherlock ends up in the A&E yet again, this time with a bullet through his body. He's coughing up flecks of blood, and as they wheel him into the hospital Greg's right there with a phone at his ear.

Sherlock reaches out, shaking his head. "Don't," he rasps.

Greg ignores him, fingers jabbing at the keys.

"Greg!"

That brings him to a halt. In their almost decades-long acquaintance, Greg's not sure if Sherlock has ever called him that.

"Sir, you can't go any further." Some orderly lays a hand on Greg's arm, and then the gurney's disappearing through a door while Sherlock struggles against the EMTs.

"Goddammit, Sherlock," he whispers as he presses _End_ on his mobile. "Stop being so bloody stubborn."

—

John dreams about the desert. About the weight of an assault rifle in his hands, the downwash of choppers, the crackle of radio. He dreams about staccato bursts of gunfire and rapid heartbeats, warm blood.

He dreams about running across the rooftops of London, skidding to a stop in front of a bus. About a pistol trained onto a Semtex vest and shifting his weight, getting ready to spring. He dreams about awful violin music and a living room shrouded in broken glass.

These aren't his nightmares.

—

In the end, they meet quite by accident. John's just coming off his shift, and Sherlock's too excited to remember where he is. "Let me in," he's demanding imperiously, while a nurse tries to keep him out of a room. "I _need_ to question her."

"Sir, I've already told the officer over there that she's not fit for talking just yet. If you could just wait—"

John looks up and sees Greg perched on a chair at the end of the hallway, elbows on his knees and head in his hands. "Stop terrorising Margaret, it's not nice," the words come from his mouth.

Sherlock's head whips around. Greg looks up with a tired smile. "John," he says, a tinge of relief in his voice, "it's good to see you."

"Greg," he nods, because there's not a lot else he can do. "Nice to see you, too."

Sherlock says nothing at all, but at least he's stopped trying to get past the nurse.

"Listen," Greg says, and there's a plea in his eyes as well as his voice, "if you could possibly take this nutter downstairs for a coffee before he gets into even more of a strop...?"

"I have a—" John starts, fumbling for an excuse. "Um, it's just—" and he's been trying desperately not to look at Sherlock, but his gaze wanders sideways and he catches a glimpse of Sherlock's expression. It turns from cold to contemptuous before Sherlock looks away; and _of course_ Sherlock already knows that John is lying.

"Fine," he bites out, because he's not scared of the mad bastard. "If Sherlock doesn't mind."

Sherlock seems genuinely startled at John's words. "I don't need coffee."

"Oh, for god's sake," Greg breaks in, very sharply. "Just go, Sherlock. You can fetch _me _a cup, at least."

Sherlock glares at Greg, but he doesn't back down. "Fine," Sherlock snaps with ill grace. "But _text me_ the moment she's awake."

During the ride downstairs, neither of them speak a word.

—

Everything John wants to say ends in "I hate you" or "I missed you".

That's not very helpful, so he keeps his mouth shut.

—

They've been sitting in the canteen for a while, John's horrible coffee already gone cold, and Sherlock's fingers are drumming on the tabletop. He's looked over everyone in the room, twice, and he still won't look properly at John.

John wants him to. Doesn't.

He doesn't know.

The silence between them is stifling, and he does not want to be sitting here. Like this. With Sherlock.

"You can leave," Sherlock says, voice indifferent. "I don't need a minder."

"That's the biggest load of shite I've ever heard," John shoots back automatically.

"Well, then," he shrugs, sounding, of all things, _bored_. And falls wordless again.

He could just walk away. Be done with this, done with him. He _could_. (Does he want to?)

He goes to get another cup of coffee instead.

As he's walking back, Sherlock's mobile lets out a buzz. "Ah, Lestrade," he says, leaping up. "_Finally_." And then he sprints away, leaving John by himself.

He ought to feel relieved. He should just go.

He finds Sherlock waiting in front of the lift.

Sherlock gives him a mock-confused look. "Did you want something?" he asks, a sarcastic lilt in his tone. "Still pretending to be my handler?"

"I—" John starts without any idea of what to say. He looks down at his hands. "Here," he says, thrusting the coffee at Sherlock. "For Greg."

Sherlock's mouth does an odd twist as he reaches for the cup. He stares into the drink. "Lestrade would hate it," he comments. "Too much sugar, not enough milk."

"Too bad." (_Black, two sugars._) "Canteen coffee doesn't really get much better."

The doors shudder open and Sherlock steps inside, coffee in hand. "Let's talk," John blurts out before he loses his nerve. "Sometime. You know."

"Talk?" A raised eyebrow.

"Yeah." John shoves his hands deep into his pockets. "About. Things." God, he sounds ridiculous.

Sherlock doesn't shred his pathetic sentence to bits. He glances at his fingers curled around the cup as the doors slide closed, and finally says, "That...sounds acceptable."

The lift goes up. John goes home.

* * *

_A/N: Coming back from the dead is hard; I've tried to capture that._


End file.
